


just off the key of reason

by tobefree (NotAllThoseWhoWander)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:37:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3713434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAllThoseWhoWander/pseuds/tobefree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The unlikely marriage of a band AU and a high school AU and a thousand bandom tropes. Enjolras is the lead singer of pop punk group The Revolutionaries; Grantaire is the hard-drinking party-boy frontman of We The Cynics. Alternatively: everyone's emo, Cosette sells merch, Marius is a groupie, and there are too many references to Warped Tour 2005.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just off the key of reason

**Author's Note:**

> This is picking up where I left off with an old band AU (pretty much everything has changed except for the band names and the title of the fic), mostly because I really love writing about mid-2000s emo music and angsty boys who wear skinny jeans and eye makeup. I don't own any characters, obviously, and although there are a lot of references to bands and band members and song titles and lyrics, I own no rights in that regard, either.

_**brothers and sisters put this record down / take my advice ('cause we are bad news)** _

* * *

 

Enjolras gets the call during passing period, right before Calculus.

He's maybe sort of definitely been expecting it for a few weeks, since he uploaded their demos to PureVolume and categorized them as pop punk/post-hardcore/emo. Someone would listen eventually, someone with influence, and then he would get a phone call and an offer and everything would change, and this time next year they would be playing a sold-out show to an arena somewhere. 

And he's right—about the first part (the sold-out arena shows come second, Enjolras figures). It's a guy who runs an indie label based thirty minutes away and he likes their sound, and he thinks that they have a lot of potential. He says that they're "hot" and Enjolras's heart is hammering in the vicinity of his throat. There are a lot of questions, and it's hard to hear the guy's voice over the clamor of the hallway, but Enjolras manages to set up a time for the guy—John something—to hear them practice, and then he says "thank you" a few too many times and by the time he flips the phone closed he's breathless and jittery. 

Paying attention in Calculus is impossible, so Enjolras ditches halfway through to go text Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Feuilly. Jehan still doesn't own a cell phone, which Enjolras thinks is ridiculous because it's 2004 and there is literally no excuse for not going to, like, T-Mobile and buying a cheap flip phone. It's kind of hard to text while his hands are shaking, but Enjolras hammers out 

_holy fuk guys some dude frm an inde label called wants 2 see us practice_

and sends it. Then he goes into the boys' bathroom and stares at his reflection in the mirror. It doesn't feel real; it feels like he's in a movie or something, like  _Almost Famous_ or one of those rock movies that he and the guys watch when they're in Combeferre's basement smoking pot. _  
_

"Shit," he says. He sort of runs his fingers through his hair, turning his head in the mirror. He's been growing his hair out a little; Enjolras has his mother's curly blond hair, and he's pretty sure that if he straightened it (which is, like, really,  _really_ in right now) she would either kill him or give him an ugly haircut in his sleep. He thinks about album covers, photoshoots. Magazines like  _Alternative Press_ and  _Kerrang!_ and feels kind of dizzy.

His voice vibrates in his pocket, and when Enjolras flips it open messages from Courfeyrac and Combeferre are flashing across the blue and gray screen.

_WTF??? r u kidding?????? if ur fuking w/ us ur dead dude >:0_

_pls tell me ur serious. what label & what's his name? _

Enjolras is composing a response when the bathroom door bangs open and a group of guys from the football team come in, laughing and dropping their backpacks on the floor. They give Enjolras filthy sideways looks. One of the guys is taking out a joint, asking for a lighter.

"Get out of here," Drew Kirkman, the quarterback, says in Enjolras' vague direction. To the other guys: "Fucking emo fags, right?"

Enjolras takes the liberty of rolling his eyes as he leaves. He's seventeen years old, his band is being courted by a record label, and he's seven months away from graduation. He couldn't care less about shitty football players and Calculus. He's fucking  _elated_. 

* * *

 

"Fuck," Combeferre murmurs. They're hunched over the desktop computer in Enjolras' living room, staring at the screen. "24601 Records."

"Weird name," Courfeyrac says, eating a Cheeto. "It sounds like an address." 

"The  _name_ doesn't fucking matter, dude." Enjolras clicks away from the label's website, typing in the url of their PureVolume page. "What matters is that he heard our stuff and he likes it, and if we do this right we could get signed."

They share an awed silence for about thirty seconds, and then Courfeyrac says  _shit_ quietly and they're all shouting with laughter and nerves and slapping each other on the back and Courfeyrac picks Combeferre up and slings him over his back. At five o'clock, the sun sinking over the autumn rooftops, Jehan and Feuilly come over and there's more shouting and almost-hysterical laughter and Enjolras pays for pizza and they all go eat in the garage between practicing songs. 

Enjolras barely sleeps that night. Just before he falls into restless half-sleep he thinks  _we're gonna be the most famous band in the world one day._

* * *

 

The record label guy's name is Jean Valjean (Enjolras learns this only after calling him 'John' three times in as many minutes) and he drives a 2002 Ford Focus whose back window is plastered with bumper stickers. Also, he's really tall and has a lot of tattoos on his left arm and looks like he could beat someone up if it came down to it, but his eyes are warm and bright and his handshake is firm. 

"This is our practice space," Enjolras says, gesturing to the garage. "My parents won't need to park inside until next month, probably, so we've got it until then."

"This time next month you might be in a real studio," Jean Valjean says, and Enjolras tries not to panic. The other guys straggle in a few minutes later, shaking hands with Valjean.

"Combeferre is our bassist, Courfeyrac's lead guitar, Jehan is rhythm guitar and Feuilly drums." Enjolras' palms are sweating. "Uh, I guess we'll just get started."

As soon as he's got the mic in his hand, Enjolras becomes  _real_. When Feuilly starts drumming and Combeferre's bass comes in behind him, everything makes sense. The scream of the guitar, the throb of bassline. It's real and good and Enjolras' voice is pure and high, he can sing higher than most girls he knows and that's something, that's cool, that's a talent. 

And they do well. They do fucking  _fantastically_. They're five guys in Enjolras' parents garage on a Wednesday afternoon, and they're using secondhand equipment and shitty amps and they do fucking  _fantastically_. Valjean is impressed. He listens intently and nods and air-drums to certain parts of "The Time Is Here, The Place Is Now", which is probably Enjolras' second-favorite song that he's ever written, and when they're done Valjean tells them that he's impressed.

"Shit, thanks." Then Enjolras thinks that maybe he shouldn't swear in front of a record label guy, and compensates by adding, "Sir."

"Please, kid." Valjean says. "Don't call me sir."

"Sorry," Enjolras says, automatically, but Valjean is laughing. He has a good laugh, loud and deep. 

"I want you to come see one of the bands that I manage," he says. "This Friday. I'll put your names on the list."

"Yeah, cool. That's—we really appreciate that." Enjolras is struggling to keep the high edge of excitement out of his voice, because that will make him sound younger, seem like a kid.

"And we really appreciate you coming to hear us," Combeferre says smoothly. "It's a real honor."

"Next time you have a gig, let me know." Valjean says. "I mean it."

"Oh, we will. Yeah, we will. Definitely." Enjolras hears that edge creeping into his voice and clears his throat. "We'll see you, man."

As soon as Valjean's sedan is around the corner, they're all shouting and slapping each other on the back and Combeferre is hugging Enjolras so hard it hurts in the best way possible.

* * *

 

Combeferre drives them all out to the venue on Friday afternoon, everyone crowded and sweating in 'Ferre's Honda Civic because the air conditioning broke over the summer and he can't afford to take it to the mechanic for at least another few months. 

"It's so fucking hot back here," Courfeyrac moans, leaning forward until his face is between Enjolras and Combeferre's in the front seat. "Why do I always have to take the hump seat?"

"Because you're the shortest, dude," Feuilly mutters, fanning himself with a dogeared  _Rocksound_. "And it smells like ass back here."

"That's the fucking air freshener!" Combeferre reaches up to shake the cardboard pine tree hanging from the rearview mirror. "It's supposed to smell like a goddamn forest. And crank the windows down if you're so hot."

"It's too cold outside," Courfeyrac complains. "It's October. It's freezing."

They keep up a litany of complaints from the backseat all the way to the venue; Enjolras chalks it up to Courfeyrac being a nervous talker. When they swing left off of the turnpike, Enjolras says,

"I haven't heard a lot about the other band." He drums his fingers on the dashboard. "We The Cynics."

"Their stuff is good, I think." Jehan says from the backseat. "I've heard some stuff online. They're kinda big on MySpace right now. I mean not, like,  _big_ big, but in the local scene I think they're doing pretty well."

"They're more hardcore than we are," Feuilly says. Enjolras watches suburbia fade into gritty urban sprawl. He turns on the radio and hums along to Sum 41 until Combeferre swings a sharp right into a parking lot outside the venue. It's a low-built brick building fronted by flashing neon: The Musain.

The lot is mostly empty; a few cars, mostly sedans and two-doors with worn paint jobs. Combeferre parks next to a white van. Enjolras guesses that it's We The Cynics vehicle; someone's spray-painted  _WTC suks ass_ across the back door. They straggle out, stretching and inhaling the cold early-evening air. The sky is going dusky over the rooftops and Enjolras can smell woodsmoke. It feels properly like fall now, all the warm weather just a memory. 

Valjean is standing by the venue doors, studying a clipboard. He greets them with a smile, slaps on the back and shoulder. 

"The openers are on right now. We The Cynics are up in about," he consults a wristwatch. "Fifteen."

"Great," Enjolras says. He cranes his neck, staring through the doors and into the Musain. It's a dim venue, but he can make out a stage and the tangle of a crowd. The throb of music filters out; heavy with guitar and drums. Enjolras's heart is loud in his chest, the same jittery feeling he always gets before seeing a show. It's a kind of high, better than any drug he's ever taken (which is limited to, like, pot and Courfeyrac's Ritalin, which made him dizzy and sick, and once some Percocet at Jehan's friend's brother's house party).

"Glad you boys could make it," Valjean says. He's wearing a v-neck shirt and Enjolras can see part of a chest tattoo. That's pretty badass, he thinks. Valjean is fucking _awesome_. 

They hang in the back of the venue during the opener's act, nodding along to the music. The band is decent but forgettable, and their best song sounds suspiciously like "American Idiot". 

"Dude, they totally ripped that chord progression," Jehan says, shouting a little over the music. Enjolras nods in response. He's about a minute away from zoning out when the openers finish their final song and shout something about supporting local bands and  _hey check out our MySpace page_ and and then,

"Make some fucking noise for We The Cynics!"  

Enjolras isn't expecting much, not from a small-time band doing gigs out of a dive bar on the edge of suburbia. He watches We The Cynics take the stage, swinging instruments around their necks, bending to check pedals and amps. The lead singer bends his head against the glare of the light, tilting his chin as he checks his guitar's tuning. Enjolras figures that he'll listen to a couple of songs and then try to score some beer off the bartender. Maybe they'll be able to get back home in enough time to run through a few songs in his garage, he's been writing guitar hooks all week—

—and then We The Cynics scream full-throttle into their opening song, and Enjolras' world skids to a grinding halt.

* * *

 

He's seen a lot of bands, is the thing. He's seen three-man Green Day cover bands and screamo bands and pop punk bands and  _punk_ punk bands and so many post-hardcore groups that he's lost count. Enjolras has spent hours and hours and  _hours_ —hundreds of hours, probably—in basements and dive bars and the backyards of people's parent's houses, watching bands try to make something  _happen_ , trying to get a rise out of fifty high schoolers in sweatshirts and Converse sneakers. 

He's never seen anything like this.

We The Cynics fucking  _tear themselves apart_ onstage, burn everything to the ground and build something beautiful and awful from the ashes. They're, like, captivating. The lead singer is a whirlwind; shaggy dark hair and a pale face and a leather jacket, screaming into the microphone like his life depends on it. The rhythm guitarist—a lanky guy with sleeve tattoos—thrashes around like his guitar is giving him an electric shock, and the bassist—a short girl in a plaid skirt—spins around and plants her feet and rips the basslines  _hard_. Their drummer is a burley guy wearing a backwards baseball cap and playing shirtless. 

Enjolras finds himself lost in the music, completely mindlessly, unaware of the dive bar around him. The bass throbs in his chest, the drums feel like a second heartbeat under his ribcage. The singer's voice wraps around him like a goddamn  _straightjacket_ and he can't get out but he's not sure that he wants to. 

The set is short, probably only about thirty minutes. Enjolras is jolted back to reality by Combeferre grabbing his shoulder and hissing "shit, they're really fucking good" in his ear, breath warm on Enjolras' neck, and then the lead singer is grabbing the mic and yelling,

"We're We The  _Fucking_ Cynics and we love you all!", and then the crowd is cheering, clapping, a few people whistling, and the stage is empty and the overheads flicker on and everything's too bright and Enjolras rubs his palm over his face. He's sweating.

"Fuck," he says. " _Fuck_."

* * *

 

It's almost ten o'clock by the time they leave—Combeferre feels that being in the same room as Valjean necessitates having a half-hour conversation about "the industry", and We The Cynics have an  _actual merch table_ with t-shirts and CDs that Jehan and Courfeyrac obsess over for _ever_. Enjolras just kind of wants to get home and finish the song he's working on and maybe try to figure out a guitar part on the shitty secondhand Fender knockoff that he bought a few years ago. 

The parking lot is cold and dark; Enjolras can see his breath, a thin gray cloud. Jehan and Courfeyrac are still talking about the merch table and speculating that if they made t-shirts they could probably hawk them at gigs for at  _least_ five dollars.

"We'd probably still have to give the CDs away, though," Jehan reasons. "I don't think that people are gonna pay more than like, three dollars for that."

We The Cynics are loading the van next to Combeferre's car; it's total chaos, a tangle of amps and instrument cases and scattered empties that seem to have fallen out of the backseat. 

The guitarist and bassist are bickering about something, and as Enjolras draws nearer he hears her say,

"Dude,  _The Omen_ is classic fucking horror, come on." 

The guitarist shakes his head, bending to lift an amp. "I can't get down with that shit, 'Ponine. You know that. I couldn't sleep for a week after you made me watch that fucking— _Six Senses_ , or whatever. The one with the freaky kid. And the old dude." _  
_

"Don't even get me  _started_ —" She kicks an empty in his direction, then turns to Enjolras. "You guys like the show?"

"Fuck, yeah," Enjolras says. "You guys are fucking fantastic."

"Thanks," she says, and there's an implied  _we know_. Her hair falls in a dark curtain across the side of her face, and when she lifts her guitar case Enjolras sees the edges of a tattoo high up on her right arm.  _  
_

"We, um." Enjolras clears his throat a little, figuring that maybe he should speak up while they're on somewhat equal footing, in a parking lot outside a shitty venue in the warm aftermath of a successful gig. "We're the band that Valjean's thinking about signing."

"Really?" She puts the case down. "Shit. We've been hearing a lot about you. I'm Éponine."

"Enjolras." They shake hands. The other guys are straggling over, extending palms and shaking. Introductions go around—the tattooed guitarist is Montparnasse, the drummer Bahorel. Enjolras is listening to Montparnasse and Jehan wax poetic about guitar hooks and pentatonic scales when someone says,

"Can someone give me a hand with these empties?" 

It's the lead singer, holding a plastic trashbag in one hand and drinking vodka from a plastic bottle, the kind that they sell at Rite Aid.

"Sure," Enjolras says, almost automatically. He bends over and picks up a few of the cans, lobs them into the bag. "Uh, great show tonight. By the way. I'm—I was really impressed."

"Hold on," the guy says, cramming a PBR can into the top of the bag. "You're the band Valjean won't shut up about, right? The Revolution, or—"

"The Revolutionaries," Enjolras says quickly. He wants to say  _what did Valjean say? Is he really that into us? Is he gonna sign us?_ but that would be ridiculous and he wants to make a good first impression, so he forces one shoulder into a casual shrug. "I guess. He's the one who put our names on the list for tonight."

"Yeah?" He's brushing strands of dark hair away from his face. "Awesome. What's your name?"

"Enjolras," Enjolras says. 

"Grantaire." He holds the vodka bottle out, but Enjolras shakes his head and says "I'm good", so Grantaire drinks instead. Enjolras's eyes follow the tilt of the bottle, the white curve of Grantaire's neck and the movement of his throat as he swallows. Then he lowers the bottle and shouts in the vague direction of the van that he's going to go throw all the empties away. To Enjolras: "You wanna come?"

"Sure," Enjolras says, jogging to keep up as Grantaire strides across the parking lot. He's taller than Enjolras by at least four or five inches, and walks quickly.

"So you're gonna be a rockstar, right?" Grantaire draws up short next to the dumpster behind the venue, swings the lid open. A thick, putrid stench comes out in waves, and Enjolras recoils. 

"Uh-huh." He nods fervently, trying not to breath through his nose too deeply. "Yeah. That's the dream, I mean." He turns and looks across the stretch of empty parking lot; the dark figures between the van and Combeferre's car, the tangle of equipment. "Like, traveling around in a van with your best friends, playing shitty dive bars every night, doing it all out of love for the music."

Maybe he sounds too earnest, or maybe Grantaire's hell-bent on living up to his band's name, but he sort of scoffs before dumping the bag of beer cans into the dumpster. 

"It's not all it's made out to be, you know."

Enjolras swallows his disappointment like a mouthful of cheap liquor. "Yeah, I mean." He forces a laugh. "Yeah."

"But there's a lot to be said for touring." Grantaire lets the dumpster lid fall closed. They start back across the parking lot. "Living out of a van, crashing on people's couches and shitty motels, scoring free beer from venues..."

"Dude," Enjolras says. " _Yeah_."

"Sometimes you get a really good audience and see the place go crazy, you know?" Grantaire twists the bottle cap off, drinks again. He swipes the back of his right hand across his mouth. "Like,  _that's_ the dream."

Enjolras can only nod fervently, and try not to stare at the way the lamplight falls across Grantaire's face, casts half in shadow and the other in gold; the curve of his cheek and mouth, his eyes deep and dark, dark, dark. Enjolras has to tear his gaze away when they reach the van again; Combeferre's started the car already, the rest of The Revolutionaries hanging out of the windows, shouting to We The Cynics. 

"Well, we'll see you around," Enjolras announces in the direction of Grantaire's left shoulder. 

"Sure, yeah." Grantaire takes another drink, the bottle almost empty. "Hope so." He runs his tongue around the bottle's rim and Enjolras's stomach does a swooping thing. He has to force himself to wave and walk, not run, to climb into the backseat of Combeferre's Honda Civic. 

* * *

 

Later, in the semi-dark of his bedroom, Enjolras stares at his ceiling and thinks about the stage at the Musain, the electricity in the air when Grantaire had taken the microphone. He can hear his parents arguing in their bedroom, voices low and hot with tension. He gets up and turns on his radio to drown the sound out, pushing a Taking Back Sunday tape into the cassette deck. Then he lays down on his bed, lets his eyes fall closed.

Maybe it's weird to jerk off with Adam Lazzara singing about wishful thinking and a thousand clever lines, but the image of Grantaire's tongue on the edge of the bottle plays like a fucking  _porno_ behind his eyelids and it's not an image that he's willing to wish away. He spits in his palm and feels filthy thinking about Grantaire desperate and sweaty, the way he'd been onstage, but the spit makes everything smooth and wet and Enjolras is coming within minutes. Adam Lazzara's voice is loud enough to cover the sound of his moan, anyway. 

Before he falls asleep, Enjolras gets up to turn off the radio and the silence threatens to swallow him alive. He watches shadows shift on the wall and he thinks _We have to get signed_ and then  _we have to make it big_ and then  _I don't care what the fuck it takes_. That night, he dreams about playing to a crowd of ten thousand people, the entire arena singing along to the lyrics he'd written in his bedroom last summer, following Enjolras's voice word for word. 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
